


A Marriage of Convenience

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Mycroft would do anything to protect his little brother.  ANYTHING.





	A Marriage of Convenience

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the March 2018 HIATUS challenge on Tumblr: arranged marriage. 
> 
> Huge thanks to tellywhich and Brainygiirl for the beta! All mistakes are mine.

Mycroft raised his head at Anthea’s soft knock. “She’s here,” his assistant said. 

“Show her in,” he said, capping his pen and laying it next to the papers on his desk.

The door swung wide. The woman who entered was petite, but there was an incongruous strength visible in the way she carried herself. Dark hair fell straight to her shoulders, and curiosity shone from her green eyes as she regarded Mycroft thoughtfully. 

He stood. “Welcome,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. “It’s good to see you.” 

“I doubt that’s true, Mycroft,” she said, a smile curving her lips. “If I recall correctly, your last words to me were something along the lines of ‘Get out and never darken my door again’.” 

He smiled thinly. “It was, perhaps, a regrettable choice of words. Although you cannot deny that the Tbilisi job went poorly.”

She glanced away, and then looked back at him, her jaw firmed. “Yes, well…that was not _our_ fault.” She took a few steps forward and sat in the offered chair. 

“Tea?” he asked, as he sat down.

“Please.”

He caught Anthea’s eye and nodded once. She frowned, but turned and headed down the hall.

“So,” he said, adopting one of his more friendly expressions, “you’ve been busy since last we met.”

His visitor smiled and ran a finger along the edge of his mahogany desk. “Business _is_ good, it’s true.”

“Gabrielle Ashdown,” he murmured. The alarm that flashed through her eyes cheered him. “A good alias. Not too common, but not so unusual as to attract undue attention.”

“I thought so.” But her smile had faded.

“And how do our cousins remunerate? Well, I assume?”

“Oh, it’s not just the CIA. I’ve worked for Mossad, KNB, GRU – I can’t exactly afford to be picky, not after....” She glanced down, her mouth a tight line, then met Mycroft’s gaze, her eyes hard. “I’m sure you didn’t bring me here to discuss how MI6 stands up against the rest of the intelligence community.”

Anthea came back in, a tea tray in her hands. She placed it on the end of Mycroft’s desk. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Please close the door on your way out.”

The door made a soft _snick_ as it closed. Mycroft lifted the teapot, poured. “Still just lemon for you?”

She hesitated, then nodded, looking discomforted. He smiled inwardly. 

He placed her cup in front of her and poured one for himself, added milk. “No, you’re right, I didn’t bring you here to inform me about our competition. I have other people for that. I have a job for you, if you’re interested.”

She raised an eyebrow, then picked up her cup and took a sip.

He slid a manila folder from the pile on his right and placed it in front of her, flipped the cover open. There was a picture inside, a picture of a man. Short but well-built; blond hair, cut military-style; dressed in jeans, a brown jumper, and a black canvas coat. 

She looked over the picture, sipping her tea. Mycroft watched her reaction closely. There was no sign that she recognized him. “You need him killed?” she asked. 

Mycroft exhaled through his nose. “No. Think more Mata Hari, less James Bond. His name is John Watson. I want you to seduce him.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, bright and sharp. She tilted her head slowly, making him feel like a mouse that had been spotted by a hawk. “I see,” she said, slowly. “Is MI6 in the blackmail business now?”

He looked down his nose at her. “I would never eschew any avenue to protect the Empire, if need be. But no, this is not blackmail. I simply need him… occupied. Off the market.”

“So, not just a one night stand.”

“No. In fact, it would be best if you got him to marry you.” At her shocked look, he added, “Or at least to propose. Within the next six months. If things do progress further, I’m sure we can come up with a suitable plan for dissolution after a satisfactory period of time.” 

“Which would be?”

He took a sip of tea. “No more than four or five months.” He opened his notebook and wrote a number on one of the pages, then tore it out and handed it to her. “We will pay you handsomely, of course.”

Her eyes widened, just a fraction, when she saw the sum he had written, and he smiled to himself. She took a quick breath, trying to control her reaction, but it was too late. “Plus expenses,” she said.

“Agreed.”

“And I can accept other jobs during this time?”

He frowned. “Under specific conditions. I can’t have you breaking your cover. I’m paying you far too much for that.”

“Brief ones, of course. Quick hits, outside of London, where my absence could be explained by a conference or a weekend trip to see family.” Her smile was as sharp as a knife. “I can’t afford to have my skills decline if I’m going to be out of commission for the better part of a year.”

“Let’s say a trip with friends. I think this will work best if you’re an orphan. I’m not sure my budget can accommodate a large family, especially if you actually get to the wedding stage.” He took another sip of tea. “And you’ll need a new name. Gabrielle Ashdown could have some… unfortunate associations.”

“How about Mary Morstan? I picked that up a few years ago and haven’t had a chance to use it yet.”

He tapped his fingers against his bottom lip, thinking. Simple, traditional, plain yet not too bland. “Very good. And you’ll have to lose the dark hair. Blonde, I think, with blue eyes.” 

“Not a problem.”

He pushed a button on his phone, then stood, extending his hand. “Excellent. Give your information to Anthea and we’ll begin the transfer process.”

She rose and shook his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Mycroft.” The door opened and Anthea escorted her out. 

He sat back down, a sense of relief washing over him. Finally he was able to take steps to address the situation. He’d become aware of it many months ago, just after Sherlock had pretended to fall from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s…

***

“…there’s evidence that Moriarty recruited a large network of former intelligence officers in Serbia and possibly Kazhakstan—” He broke off and glared at his brother, who was striding back and forth across the tiny, windowless room. “Sherlock, would it be too much to ask for your attention right now? We did get this information at no small cost, it would be a shame to waste it. And we have limited time to get things in motion.”

“Hm?” Sherlock replied. His hands were folded together, fingers resting on his lips as he paced. 

“What on earth is the matter with you?”

“Oh, erm… yes, Serbia, Kazhakstan….” He stopped and flung himself into the chair on the other side of the table. “Do you think faking my death was a mistake?”

“It was _your_ idea.”

“I know, but—”

“You said that there was no possible way you could destroy Moriarty’s network unless they thought you were dead.”

“Yes, I know—”

“You said that there was no way you could go the places you needed to go and talk to the people you needed to talk to unless the entire world thought that Sherlock Holmes, Net Detective, was gone.”

Sherlock exhaled and leapt back to his feet, resumed pacing. “I thought as much. I still think as much, I do, but…”

He eyed his brother, his brows drawing together in a frown. “You hadn’t counted on Moriarty being insane enough to kill himself.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I hadn’t foreseen it, no, but it doesn’t change anything.” 

“Trust me, brother mine, I will make sure that Mrs. Hudson does not rent out Baker Street in your absence.”

“It’s not that, either.”

He sighed loudly. “Then what, dare I ask, could possibly be distracting you from the work you have been planning for several months?”

Sherlock was silent. He stopped at the end of the table, tapped on the edge lightly with his fingers. “It’s John.”

“John…?”

“John Watson.”

“What about him?” Sherlock was silent again, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sherlock. I know he’s been helpful to you now and again, although his tales of your exploits have been as much a hindrance to you as a help—”

“More of the latter, actually.”

“…but his skills, such as they are, will not be of help to you in this situation. You need to move quickly and with stealth, and having a partner, regardless of his medical knowledge, will not—”

“He was there.”

Mycroft blinked. “At Barts?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were arranging to have him be elsewhere.”

“I tried. It didn’t work.”

He tapped his fingers against his lips. “Well,” he said, after a pause, “it can only help to sell the lie. Undoubtedly the media will want to interview him, given his role in your cases—”

“He was upset.” 

Mycroft shrugged. “Of course.”

His brother slumped back into his seat. “It was… difficult.”

“Sherlock,” he said, exasperated, “how many times must I tell you: don’t get attached.”

Sherlock said nothing, bracing his elbows on his knees and clenching his hands in his hair. 

“You can’t seriously be—”

Sherlock raised his head and looked him in the eye. “I want to see him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “There’s no way he’s going to be able to keep up the façade if he knows you’re alive.”

“Not talk to him. Just… just see him. I need… I need to know….”

“Impossible.”

“Someplace public.” Sherlock cocked his head. “The cemetery, perhaps.”

“Out of the question.”

His brother’s expression hardened. “Arrange this for me, or I’ll break out of here and go on my own.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes, giving Sherlock his most intimidating glare.

“You know I can do it, don’t test me. And don’t look at me like that, it won’t work. It hasn’t worked since I was seventeen.” 

***

He’d been right, it hadn’t worked, Mycroft mused. It hadn’t worked, and he’d been forced to arrange for Sherlock to be at the cemetery during one of John’s visits. 

That had been the tipping point, the point at which he’d known that John Watson was, in fact, making his brother worse. Sherlock had risked everything, their entire plan, all their careful months of planning, for a glimpse of John Watson. 

He reached for his tea, but it was cold. He pushed a button on his phone; when Anthea stuck her head in he gestured to the tea set. “Take that away and bring me some fresh, please.”

He stopped her when she was nearly out the door, the tray in her hands. “Who was the clerk that gathered the information on Gabrielle Ashdown?”

She paused, and cocked her head, thinking. “James, I believe. Just got here two months ago.”

“Fire him. He missed the fact that she had been employed by several intelligence agencies. I can’t tolerate such sloppy work.”

She nodded and left, and his thoughts returned to his brother. Things had only become worse in the year and a half Sherlock had been away. Despite his best attempts at hiding it, Mycroft could tell that, as Moriarty’s network was disabled, agent by agent, his brother’s thoughts were turning, more and more frequently, to returning to London. Returning to John. 

Sentiment. It had been the downfall of generals and kings, but he was damned if it was going to be his little brother’s. He had to learn: there was nothing to be gained from attachments with other people. 

And this would teach him. He would return to London to find John in another’s arms. It would hurt, yes, but he had no doubt that Sherlock would eventually come to see that it was for the best. Being alone was smart, being alone protected him. And Mycroft wanted nothing more than to protect his little brother from this, just as he’d protected him from bullies and drugs and faithless boyfriends. 

He closed the folder and slipped it into his outbox to be filed. Time to work on finding a reason to bring Sherlock back to London. He had six months.


End file.
